Beatles Love

I posted an audio version of this on Paperback Readers as part of a bonus episode inspired by the book In Their Lives: Great Writers on Great Beatles Songs, edited by Andrew Blauner.

I am sitting in the backseat of my parents’ car as it heads for home. It is dark outside, and cold--I feel the chill from the window I am leaning my head against. Kristi is beside me, my constant companion in all my shenanigans, and for once we are not kicking each other for more space or playing an imaginary game that gets progressively louder (and always involves Joey McIntyre) as my parents try to talk over us. We are both quiet, each staring out the window at the familiar landmarks shrouded in darkness and mystery flashing past.

My dad adjusts the volume on the radio, and “I Want to Hold Your Hand” flows through the speakers. I don’t know who the Beatles are, and I won’t have more than a vague understanding of them or their cultural influence for many years, not until I’m an adult and meet the man who will be my husband. (He is dismayed but not shocked that I don’t really know Bob Dylan, but at least relieved that I do know who the Beatles are, even if I can’t pick out the different voices or immediately recognize who wrote which song.)

But I do know that I love this song, this feeling, this soft comforting energy that feels like my dad’s love as he sings along, tossing his own mop of dark hair. “I want to hold your haaaaaaaaand!” he sings, and he grabs my mom’s hand and kisses it. She smiles at him, and I snuggle against the window, letting their love and this music twine together and wash over me. 

It sounds like safety and happiness and the innocence of my childhood, and a pinch of all of this comes back to me whenever I hear this song or any of the music that rolled from the Nashville Oldies station that was my dad’s favorite.

My kids know the Beatles, of course. They cut their teeth on Beatles songs and were lisping the names John, Paul, George, and Ringo when they could barely talk. They have favorite albums and songs, and even though they have moved on to their own musical tastes, they are still vaguely irritated with me that I have never been able to choose one song or album that is my favorite. My Beatles experience is different from theirs, and yet for all of us, Beatles music sounds like home.

Yesterday in the car, I ignored my son’s request for his favorite 80’s era rap music or the handful of Hamilton songs he loves. I pulled up a 60’s playlist on Spotify, remembering all the times as teens that we complained about having to listen to my dad’s oldies music. “When it’s your car, you can choose the music,” he said, and I clicked shuffle, letting the music he always chose fill the car. And I sang along, the kids in the backseat listening as “Help!” played through the speakers, and I hoped that they also felt my love.